


The bear, the snail, and the angel (or: three people with silly names)

by Ololon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I may have a new OT3, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16663849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: An arrangement is..expanded upon.





	The bear, the snail, and the angel (or: three people with silly names)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Lord of Misrule, so you should probably read that. Post Making Money. I still can't believe I basically wrote myself into this with the last fic. But it wouldn't let me go. And now I've given myself a dratted OT3 and I don't even ship that...usually. So don't say I didn't warn you that it's probably terrible.

_Three people with silly names_

It had been Moist’s idea, of course. Havelock had vetoed it the first time around; as had Adora, but he knew that they both were more intrigued than they were letting on, and he used all his persuasive charm to convince them that it wasn’t a crazy idea. And, then, of course they’d both come up with all the boring, practical reasons as to why it _was_ a crazy idea. Adora had pointed out that there was no way in hell _she_ was climbing up drainpipes or sneaking in with deliveries or disguising herself as a guard. Which was fair enough. Havelock had pointed out that he had already _expressly_ ruled out the use of a “secret passage” (with the quotation marks audible) when Moist’s nocturnal visits had become more regular, and that he wasn’t compromising his safety for _that._

After a couple of frustrating weeks whilst Moist thought up and discarded progressively more outlandish ideas, Adora simply invited the Patrician around for dinner one Saturday night. Which had been perfectly cordial, and had ended with Adora lighting up a post-prandial cigarette, leaning back in her chair, crossing her very shapely legs, and declaring:

‘If you can have dinner with the Vimes’ once a month, you can do the same with us, and stay over,’ quite unprompted, which had left Moist scrabbling to catch up, because he didn’t remember discussing this in advance.

‘I’m not _Moist’s_ godfather, unlike Young Sam,’ Havelock had pointed out, with a twitch of a smile, at the exact moment Moist was taking a large gulp of wine, and promptly choked on it, but Adora had snorted in amusement. ‘I will return to the Palace afterwards.’

‘Tonight you will,’ she agreed, ‘Quite late. And next time, and thereafter, you will decide it is too late, and send for a coach in the morning. I don’t care if you _are_ an Assassin, I’m not letting the Patrician walk home alone at the dead of night.’

‘Your concern is touching, madam, but it might raise questions.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh?’

‘No; for one thing, people never suspect something that is right out in the open in front of them. They only get suspicious when there’s skulking around going on, and Moist has been doing quite enough of that as it is. Don’t tell me you weren’t going to put your foot down on that.’ A raised eyebrow.

‘If it had proved necessary, but I rather thought you might first.’ At which point Moist had belatedly realised he was being outmanoeuvred.   

‘For another, it’s a married couple you’re meeting, not just one of us. Nobody thinks you’re shagging Commander Vimes and his wife for goodness’ sake.’* Moist spluttered on another mouthful. ‘Moist has already reviewed the house security, since people like him always think bank managers take the money home with them.’

‘ _I_ was never stupid enough to think that,’ Moist pointed out, finally managing to get a word in.

‘We have no live-in servants,’ Adora continued, ignoring that, ‘And a perfectly adequate, secluded spare bedroom on the top floor.’ Vetinari leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands, and giving them both a considering look over the top of them, both eyebrows raised.

‘Do you have any further…conditions?’ he asked, with a brief glance at Moist. Adora raised an eyebrow back at him, with a saucy quirk to her mouth.

‘Certainly, but not ones I’d care to discuss at the dinner table. Any objections?’ And he actually smiled back at her.

‘No indeed. I was just reflecting what a refreshing change it was to not be the only responsible adult in the room.’ Adora had laughed.

It was _still_ a crazy idea, but all the best ones were…

_Bärchen_

The first time they had tried this, it had very nearly gone disastrously wrong. Havelock was not on his home turf, and was anyway paranoid and controlling. Adora was defensive, distrustful, and…combative. They had circled, wary, taking the measure of each other, and for a wild moment he wasn’t even sure if this was going to come down to fighting or fucking. Suddenly panicked at his brilliant idea unravelling before his eyes, he had stepped in – literally stepped between them – and made a silly joke, grinning somewhat manically – and somehow it had worked. Havelock had paused, stepped back, then, surprisingly, dipped a chivalrous little bow towards Adora, smiling slightly. A brief high peal of laughter had escaped her, almost a tinkling sound.

‘I always thought you were a _proper_ gentleman,’ she had said, and, to Moist’s lasting astonishment, stepped forward, to take Havelock’s face in her hands and lightly kiss him. It occurred to him, then, that she just might have seen through Vetinari almost as easily as she had seen through Moist. It was an observation she repeated, later, far more breathlessly, as he had made sure that she had come first; a silver-tongued devil in more ways than one, apparently. She liked the beard; soft, and just enough but not too much, she had said.

‘Your husband is of the same opinion,’ Havelock had said, surfacing, and not allowing her to return the favour; but he did allow Moist. It was like that, often. He _was_ a gentleman, with her, in a manner both curiously old-fashioned and strangely modern: for her, the knives stayed sheathed (as did his cock, politely prudent); for her, he played nicely, consenting to let her take charge. Moist did wonder, sometimes, how long it had been since he’d had a female lover. There were all those rumours about Margolotta, of course, but he’d always suspected rumours suited the Patrician far better than a reality. Reality was complicated, and Moist knew him well enough, by now, to sense his hidden satisfaction at this new…agreement. Havelock admired Adora, almost openly (this _was_ Havelock, after all), and she liked him more than she would admit, oh not for the flattery of it, but because the most intelligent, perceptive man in the City not only _respected_ her, but found her _interesting._

It was Moist who held it all together, of course; it was a knack he had. Granted, what this meant in practice was that most of the time he ended up taking orders from two people at a time, instead of just the one, but he couldn’t deny that only doubled the heady rush it gave him. Besides, at the end of the day, he got to play with his two favourite people, one of whom he loved beyond all reason, and the other, who, well, was a sort of angel to him. Adora said that he and Havelock were _cute_ together (granted she’d said ‘hot’ first, and he was absolutely certain Havelock would never let _him_ get away with calling him ‘cute’, although she had at least warranted a Look). But Moist thought that Havelock and Adora were _charming_ together, although he would definitely never have dared say that to either of them. And Moist…felt a security that he had never had since running away from home all those years ago.

 

_Schnecken_

They were both rather sweet, really. Well, maybe sweet wasn’t quite the right word for somebody as serious as Havelock, but she knew, now, that the forbidding tyrant face was, at least in part, a mask. She knew about masks. She was even getting used to the silly name, although really, it was the worst luck, all three of them saddled with that baggage. He'd never be charming, and he wasn’t exactly warm-hearted (not that she was either) but he was considerate, and, she suspected, cared for Moist more than he had admitted even to himself. For both of them, probably, but, unlike Moist, she didn’t need anything from him, nor he from her, she was quite sure. Still, she had to admit that it was nice to be properly _heard,_ for the first time, in, well, forever. What _he_ got from it, she wisely kept her own counsel on. Without Moist, neither of them would have entertained anything like this. They were far too sensible: paranoid, Moist would have said, but not everybody could be like him, living on the edge: you needed somebody who thought about safety rails. Or at least safe words.

Havelock was trying to teach Moist, which was worth the price of admission alone, because Moist hadn’t quite realised that was what he was doing, or at least _why_ he was doing it, and was always complaining about his “pillow talk.” Havelock didn’t lecture Adora. He asked for her opinions (she wouldn’t go so far as to say advice, but still, he seemed to take them seriously). It made a refreshing change to have an intelligent conversation with a man who wasn’t trying to prove how much smarter he was than her, especially as he was the only one she’d met who _was_ (possibly) smarter than her. Or hit on her. Granted, they were doing… _this,_ but she had the strongest impression that even if they weren’t, he would quite happily have had the same conversations. He was interested, most of all, in her reports of her travels; he evidently found her a good source of information. But he understood that it was a _quid pro quo,_ and was far more forthcoming in response to her questions rather than Moist’s.

‘So what really happened with that Leshp business?’ she had asked him one day, when Moist was drowsing between them, coming down from one of his spaced-out highs. Havelock had given her an appreciative glance (and probably not just because she was still undressed and artfully propped on an elbow), and told her, in quite comprehensive detail. She had listened with avid attention, laughing at some points, asking pertinent questions at others, whilst Moist had eavesdropped, feigning sleep.

‘Quite a risk,’ she noted, when he had finished, wondering what hand he would have played if the island hadn’t sunk; if, indeed, he had _had_ another hand to play. The brief but unwelcome image of a war-ravaged Ankh-Morpork with the likes of Reacher Gilt as Patrician flitted through her mind like a cold shadow, and she shivered.

‘Well, yes, you play high risk if it’s high stakes; if you have to, anyway,’ Moist felt obliged to interrupt, pulling the sheets up over her.

‘I thought you were asleep, dear,’ she deadpanned, sweetly, and succeeded in eliciting a stifled laugh from Havelock.

‘You never told me all that when I asked you,’ Moist added to Havelock, almost pouting.

‘That is because _you_ asked me about the fez,’ Havelock pointed out, and it was Adora’s turn to laugh.

 

_Engel_

Moist would say that it had taken some persuasion to get him to agree to this…arrangement. This was not strictly correct; it had merely taken him much consideration as to the _wisdom_ of such an affair. If there were no other matter to consider but the matter itself, then he hardly needed persuading. But there were, as always, so many other things to consider. He did not want Moist’s recklessness to rub off on him, and he was already aware that he had let things proceed far beyond their original carefully calculated weakness.

The… _thing_ …with Moist (he still had no satisfactory word), had only been intended as a temporary arrangement; a game to play whilst Adora was away. Adora had her own private arrangement with a woman in Genua, so it was not that it was an unequal affair. But Moist, of course, liked to change the rules, and it had continued when Adora returned, with her consent. Nevertheless, he was wary of it becoming a problem; Moist had grown attached to him, and whilst it was obvious how much the man loved his wife, Havelock had no intention of her becoming jealous – he did not need to make a formidable enemy. Involving Adora directly was, in an odd way, the easiest way to keep a check on things and potentially gain, instead, a potent ally. It was certainly the most enjoyable method, too.

Adora was not afraid of him; she never had been, which was interesting in itself, but what was most interesting was that it was not merely a result of her usual…strength of character, but that she had quite clearly and logically reasoned to herself that she had nothing to fear from him, evidently quite some time ago. That his character was not such that he was a personal threat, and there was no realistic scenario in which their interests would cross and pit them against each other. They were both far too clever for that, and they were both on the side of the angels, so to speak. He understood better, then, her quick temper, her defensiveness; it was always that much harder to be an intelligent woman than a man, watching other people (men) making a mess of things and not listening to you.

So he listened to her, more than anything else, and revised his opinion of her upwards when he realised how much _she_ listened to _him;_ he paid that attention the due respect it deserved. It would always be Moist that held them together, with that rare talent of his; they knew it, most, when he was between them, and their eyes met over his shoulder, but never their lips. But there was a connection there that, he suspected, had been as unexpected for her as it was for him.

Always, they had a light dinner, but a hearty breakfast that he suspected was a conspiracy between Moist and Adora to feed him up, and which he actually had an appetite for. Always, he slept so much better with Moist’s warmth between the two of them. Sometimes, for the first time, he even imagined a win over the future; a high stakes win, with the golden prize of retirement. And friends who would visit him.

 

It was _still_ a crazy idea, mind, but, apparently, the three of them had a way of making crazy ideas work.

 

 

*Haha. Ahahaha. Excuse me.


End file.
